


Frills and Bows

by orphan_account



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Ambiguous Feelings, Annie Is an Evil Genius, Badass Domesticity FTW!, Best Friends, But They're Awesome Together, George Is Such a Spaz, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mitchell Is Kind of an Idiot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cross dressing, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which denial is something that happens to other people and friendship will save the day.  Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frills and Bows

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I keep saying I have more stuff for this fandom. It just, uh, generally comes as a oneshot, and I don't know, I should have posted this a while ago but I forgot. I'm sorry.
> 
> Again, this largely got written in response to the whole WHY ARE YOU DEAD, MITCHELL?! thing.
> 
> ...And the fact that I find this pairing adorable and am genuinely confused about why the rest of the world does not.
> 
> Anyway. Take this as you will. I like to imagine that were things to pan out like this, the trio's story would have had a much happier end.

George is ridiculous. This is at least 40% of why Mitchell loves him. The rest is a unique cocktail of sweet (the way he insists on getting Mitchell a present for his birthday, even though it’s not that special the one hundred and seventeenth time around—or it wasn’t, until George got his claws into it), loyal (even when you don’t deserve it; George drives Mitchell up walls trying to be a better man), and effortlessly good fun (two beers, the telly, and George. Life? Complete).  
  
Maybe it’s just Mitchell, but George has the ability to make staring at peeling wallpaper entertaining. He has this thing he does with his eyebrows…? Never mind.  
  
But he’s very, very ridiculous and Mitchell is quite fond of him for it. Granted, the first time he meets George, George has just had the shit beat out of him by the Fang Gang, or whatever stupid moniker they’ve been dragging around lately, and he’s got blood almost everywhere. He’s in hysterics. Mitchell takes one look at him and he feels the farthest thing from laughing (which perhaps explains why he spent precious minutes of his time dealing with the morons and politely implying he’d be ripping their smirking faces off in the next ten minutes if they didn’t swan off elsewhere).  
  
The second time he meets George, it’s the morning after a full moon, and George is in drag.  
  
Mitchell totally laughs. He doesn’t even _mean_ to. Laughing is generally a conscious decision that Mitchell makes, you know, as he decides who he’ll be… associating with tonight. But at this moment with George Sands, it just explodes out. Mitchell knows he ought not to, judging from the storm clouds gathering on George’s face. This will not make him any friends. But he can’t help it.  
  
George the Very Hysterical Werewolf has tarted himself up in an appalling shade of magenta (the blouse) and what appear to be orange skinny jeans. He must have clawed his way up to the third floor hotel window where Mitchell is staying by sheer willpower (and stronger than average post-wolf fingernails) and would have already clawed his way back down again were he not totally desperate for help.  
  
Mitchell doesn’t blame him. Some things are just not meant for public audiences.  
  
Mitchell manages to swallow down the rest of the giggles and lets George go pawing through his things. George heads into the bathroom with a pile of clothes, muttering about sizes and how Mitchell is apparently beanpole. To clarify, yes, he’s still in the atrocious blouse and jeans.  
  
He comes out wearing far too much black leather and with an ever more thunderous expression _daring_ Mitchell to make a comment.  
  
Mitchell smiles broadly, offers to burn the items George had nicked from someone’s clothesline, and thinks momentarily that George is really quite adorable. For a werewolf.  
  
Well, George is actually quite adorable for a person, really, werewolf or otherwise. It’s the personality. There’s something terribly puppyish about him, in a neurotic, determinedly germaphobic sort of way. Plus he’s got a great laugh and by the end of the week the only reason he isn’t finishing Mitchell’s sentences is—get this—because it’s far too much trouble when they’ve both already acknowledged the strange telepathy between them. Seriously. George has managed to accurately convey football scores with the degree of angle in his nod. Mitchell will just think the word ‘biscuit’ and George will be shoving a pack at him, muttering aggressively about how if Mitchell doesn’t take the bloody things, he’s stuffing them up his nose.  
  
It’s mad and a little wonderful and Mitchell wonders vaguely if this is how getting high feels like. He’s never experimented with drugs. Funny story. Actually, he drinks people’s blood, and the resulting rush tends to make whatever rush drugs can offer sound like it’s for chumps.  
  
Oh yeah, and George knows about that too.  
  
He’s totally unwilling to _talk_ about it, and the most it’s been allowed into their singularly weird friendship was when Mitchell got a bit of floss stuck in his fang and had to get George to fish it out (blasted mirrors) and this other time where Mitchell had possibly gotten a little bit overexcited about a meal (because that _never_ happened—alright, it happened every time and Mitchell was just numb to it) and George was there to drag him off and throw Mitchell across the room. Kept it up too. About three basketball tosses à la vampire, after which Mitchell had gotten it out of his system and stopped leaping for jugulars. He’d proceeded to experience a truly philosophically inspiring level of terror that George would hate him now.  
  
He’d had to sit through a three hour lecture with angry George pulling a face like he’d been kicked by a horse, after which George had folded his arms and stared at Mitchell severely. The telepathy kicked in again. Mitchell had known that they were going to be okay.  
  
He’d hugged George. George had sniffed a bit into his collar and mumbled something incoherent. And then they went to the pub and got hammered like proper blokes.  
  
Afterwards, Mitchell had made two private resolutions.  
  
First: take your meals far away from where George can see. For practical reasons.  
  
Second: Take less meals. What you are pisses him off more than he puts on.  
  
So there they were: Mitchell, skinny as a rake, a dieting vampire, and George, who managed to come in from each full moon glassy-eyed, deeply miserable, and consistently dressed in woman’s clothing.  
  
“It’s not as if I do it on purpose,” George said one afternoon, after Mitchell had finished sniggering into the sofa cushions. George had long since given up changing in the bathroom, so Mitchell got treated to the sight of his best friend stripping as he complained. “It’s just—I can’t be starkers, Mitchell. I _can’t_. What if there are children about?”  
  
“I’ll say,” Mitchell said, more or less kicked back to enjoy the view. George was one of the palest people he’d ever met, but his body was a walking contradiction to that. Stout, muscular, built to last. Nothing ephemeral about him. He’d have made a terrible vampire, and Mitchell loved it. It also made him look hilarious in drag.  
  
George shot Mitchell a look. “I can’t help it that the first clothesline I come across always seems to be a woman’s, can I? I’ve just got to go with whatever’s available.” He wriggled his way out of what was either a sarong, or someone’s very… floral idea of a towel. Mitchell averted his eyes to avoid being mooned.  
  
“Maybe you should change transformation locations,” Mitchell suggested, glad he was looking away and therefore avoiding the black look that mentioning George’s condition tended to get. He did hear George very angrily pulling up his trousers, though. George was able to make a lot of neutral actions sound irritable. It was very endearing.  
  
“I already have done,” George said in a tiny voice.  
  
“Hm? What was that?” Mitchell asked, delighted.  
  
George threw a shoe at his head. It had a bit of a raised heel, which did nothing to prevent Mitchell from asphyxiating himself with laughter.  
  
So it seemed like the greater Bristol area either had only women hanging their washing outside, or George just had terrible luck, but it worked out pretty well for Mitchell. It was always a laugh. And George was cute, in this very silly way. Like putting a cat in sunglasses. Putting a beach umbrella over an indoor chair. Putting frilly things on a George. It was the sort of thing you took pictures of and uploaded onto social media sites. It was just funny.  
  
“It has ribbons on it,” Mitchell observed happily on another occasion, holding a blouse up for examination. “Little white ribbons.” He poked his head around the cloth to give George an approving look. “It’s really quite tasteful, looking at it.”  
  
And because of his swift, vampiric reflexes, he was able to dodge George attempting to clap him in the face with a pillow.  
  
So it was cool, it was everything and better than Mitchell could have hoped for. It’s not like Mitchell wallowed in the angsty loneliness of his undead existence or anything, but a mate like George made him think, shit, is this it? This is the Rest of My Life?  
  
And then he’d get drawn into puzzling over or not he could convince George to make him toast by staring very hard at the back of his neck. (George made brilliant toast, too. He did the cooking thing. Mitchell had accordingly discovered that he had an interest in the sampling that cooking, and reluctantly allowed George to prod him into slowly, inevitably becoming a food snob).  
  
By the time George and his antics had become the kind of permanent fixture that naturally led to flatsharing and doubling up their laundry, and Mitchell’s resolutions had gone from drinking less blood (that sweet, awful red nectar) to not drinking at all, they’d found the Pink House and their Annie and even safely working class jobs to despise. Seeing George in inappropriate dress was routine. Laugh, make comment to have George’s ears turn red, hand over glasses and Star of David, pull a thorn or two from careless werewolf’s skin, prepare tea. Normalcy at its finest.  
  
(Of course, George had gone back to hiding in the bathroom any time he had to disrobe, because of Annie being a woman. Bit of a shame. Mitchell figured he’d get over it with time.)  
  
And then there was Tully and it all went slightly to shit.  
  
Tully with his helpful suggestions. Tully with his uninvited occupation of Mitchell’s side of the couch. Tully with his… with his…  
  
He was stealing George and Mitchell did not appreciate it.  
  
He _tolerated_ it, alright? Mitchell was very good at patiently waiting for things (although Lauren and Herrick and their lot did not help his patience at all, honestly; they _could_ have picked a better time). He was basically happy that George had found a wolf mentor to get him out of his spiral of self-hate. There was nothing monstrous about George at all—it was only George who couldn’t see that. Whenever Mitchell tried to envision George the Wolf, all he got was this image of a frolicking, overgrown puppy.  
  
…So yeah, Mitchell acknowledged that perhaps he was not the most understanding person when it came to George getting fluffy once a month. So Tully was good. The bastard.  
  
But then there was the falling out (how could that have gone any worse?) and George actually snapping at Mitchell. It was so beyond Mitchell’s comprehension that he just sort of stared and went through a mental checklist of potential responses.  
  
1) Decapitate and feast on innards of aggressor.  
  
Nope. Mitchell didn’t do that anymore. Besides, _George_. Which was an answer in and of itself.  
  
2) Acquiesce politely and then just go and do what he’d wanted to in the first place (namely, lock Tully up in the Tower of London. Really. Mitchell would make the trip, just for him.)  
  
Tempting. But unsuitable, as it would not prevent George from getting cross later.  
  
3) Appeal to intellect by forming a logical, reasonable argument.  
  
Mitchell just sort of gaped and watched George storm out. He didn’t even tell Tully he was a wanker when the man paused to give him that smug ‘I win, you lose’ look, which really should have provoked something. Bastard.  
  
George slammed the door and yes, that had _definitely_ gone quite well.  
  
On to damage control with Annie and a lot of mental pep talks about how if George didn’t need Mitchell, then Mitchell didn’t need him either (followed by biscuit therapy) and ultimately spending twenty minutes staring sadly at a tea bag and thinking of what a cold, tea-less place this would be if George left because Mitchell had been unfortunately compelled to push Tully into downtown traffic.  
  
He’d also given George’s shouted, half-formed arguments some thought. Why _hadn’t_ Mitchell been teaching George about managing the wolf? It wasn’t an unfair question.  
  
The easy answer was that Mitchell didn’t know much about it. His condition was quite different from George’s, and he’d never known (or wanted to know, seriously, werewolves weren’t… they just weren’t anything he wanted to study) much about werewolves, let alone another living, breathing wolf. George was the exception. And most of what Mitchell ‘knew’ about werewolves was racist, exaggerated hearsay, and not to be trusted.  
  
George, for instance, did not explode into purple slime if he had a chocolate chip. That was one vampire theory down the drain right there.  
  
 _But_ , Mitchell acknowledged, _the easy answer isn’t quite true, is it?_  
  
It was a little bit George’s fault to begin with. Mitchell reflected on this, morosely hugging a tea tin to his chest while he recolonized his spot on the sofa. George was never capable of talking about the wolf unless he was drunk, and he acted like Mitchell was gutting him whenever Mitchell tried to bring it up. What was Mitchell meant to do? Draw up the supernatural version of Plato’s _Allegory of the Cave_?  
  
Besides, he could never bear with George making that face. You know. _That_ one. The one where it felt like Mitchell had been socked in the gut. The one that produced the irrational urge to apologize and confess one’s evils.  
  
But honestly? Part of it was about seeing George come home in some nice housewife’s lounge wear.  
  
Mitchell doubted that this answer would go over very well. “Oh, well I like to see you flustered and make jokes about which colors bring out your eyes, so I didn’t mention that you might be able to stash proper clothing somewhere nearby?”  
  
Yes. Yes, this was unlikely to further his cause. It would also probably get him punched.  
  
Later, when things were sorted with Tully—and Mitchell didn’t get involved even once, which was great, especially when George came home and formed his very awkward apology that made Mitchell smile utterly against his will (he’d later removed the tea bags from his pants pockets and divested them of lint before returning them to their tin)—Mitchell was forced to bid farewell to his ritual of George modeling lady’s attire. George now kept proper clothes stashed at the ready. And Mitchell did not mope. Ignore what Annie said. She was lying.  
  
And thus life continued. George, Mitchell, and Annie, living in their house together and conspiring to fit in. It was happy. It was simple. It made Mitchell feel very close to human for the first time in a century.  
  
And then there was that one Friday when it all changed.

\----

Mitchell was sprawled onto the couch, playing absently with George’s Star of David with one hand, frowning at a weathered library paperback, and basically blowing off life until George returned and the world resumed its natural order. Annie had temporarily absconded with George’s glasses. She seemed to be trying to work out whether or not they altered her vision. So far, this had meant a lot of squealing from the kitchen.  
  
Mitchell would eventually get up to investigate. He would. Just after this chapter.  
  
The door banged and there was a loud, irritated huff signaling the return of Mitchell’s favorite werewolf. He sat up in a hurry, trying to appear as though he had not been playing cat’s cradle with George’s religious artifact. From the kitchen, Annie’s head appeared, looking quite smart in George’s glasses. “How’d it go?” Mitchell asked, and then George stepped fully into the room. Mitchell’s mouth dropped open.  
  
“Not a word,” George said, plainly seething.  
  
There was probably an excellent explanation, because Mitchell knew George had brought a change of clothes—in fact, George was probably explaining it now, judging by the gestures and emphatic ranting—but Mitchell wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to his housemate’s body. More specifically, what that body was wearing. Or no. The body _and_ the clothing. And the…  
  
Oh Christ, Mitchell did not _do_ inarticulate.  
  
You know, the thing where Mitchell enjoyed the occasional view of George in drag? He enjoyed it because it was _funny_. Because George got so flustered about it and yet seemed incapable of avoiding this fate, and because ridiculous George was possibly Mitchell’s favorite George. He was meant to be silly and possibly a little distressed, because that meant Mitchell could cheer him up again.  
  
He was not, repeat, was NOT meant to look good in it.  
  
“And then they just ran off, apparently, leaving their campfire unattended, and all that was left of my clothes,” George said, voice shaking. “Was a sock. A _sock_!”  
  
“Oh dear,” said Annie, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.  
  
“That’s unfortunate,” echoed Mitchell (who had heard exactly none of that). His voice was an octave or three lower than normal. George was too busy being disgusted with his life to notice, but Annie peered around George’s shoulder to give Mitchell a look. Mitchell violently cleared his throat (possibly choking slightly).  
  
George looked _good_ in it.  
  
It wasn’t like he’d managed to walk off in someone’s lingerie this time, or was suddenly in stilettos with a feather boa and a blonde, curly wig. Honestly, it was all very subtle. Tasteful, nearly.  
  
The top flared open widely in what would have been a stunning view of someone’s cleavage, and afforded a fine view of George’s pale, sturdy chest, accentuated by the most aesthetically appealing frills Mitchell had ever seen in his life. _Frills_. And there were—there were _ribbony_ bits. On the arms. George was already muscular, but his arms were shapely in those sleeves. Graceful. It was this green color, and it made George’s blue eyes unforgettable, and his skin like cream, and his neck like the kind of dessert where if you didn’t at least have a taste, you were possibly ruining your own life.  
  
And the skirt. The skirt was _indecent_. This coming from someone who'd seen George in the nuddy plenty of times, to no effect. It wasn’t too long or too short, but it… it draped. It draped in ways it had no right to drape, and George had hips that Mitchell had somehow never seen in his life. There were slits at the edges—just enough to see knees. _Knees_. When had those become erotic?  
  
Mitchell was left, mouth slightly agape, with the sudden realization that his best friend was flesh and blood—with all the right parts that made one want to fling oneself at them. Somewhere, underneath the eternal discomfort in his own skin and the agitation with physicality in general, George was _handsome_ , wasn’t he? Really quite handsome.  
  
In ribbons and frills.  
  
Mitchell tore his eyes away and blinked furiously at his knees. “Perhaps you should go and get changed,” he said, and no, his voice did not at all sound normal. “Annie will make you some tea.” _I will continue to have a heart attack._  
  
“Fine,” George huffed, thankfully oblivious to Mitchell’s existential crisis. He snatched the glasses off of Annie’s nose before taking to the stairs. “My life is ridiculous,” he called out behind him. Mitchell was too busy taking deep breaths to respond.  
  
Annie drifted over, in an aura of ghostly cold and unbearable smugness. She said nothing. She just giggled by Mitchell’s ear. Mitchell buried his face in a pillow. “Go make tea,” he pleaded.  
  
“You’re blushing,” Annie said with delight. “You are actually blushing. You know, I don’t ever think I’ve seen you blush.”  
  
Mitchell was not going to run and hide in his room. That’s what children did.  
  
“Tell you what,” Annie said, flopping onto the sofa next to him and smiling at him when he peeked at her. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t throw it away. But in return you owe me a favor.”  
  
Yeah. Mitchell would totally agree to that deal. Voluntary slavery to a cheerful, tea-bearing madwoman.

\----

Mitchell was doomed and Annie owned him. On the positive side, Mitchell also had George’s outfit buried in his room. _Not_ that he was doing anything weird with it. He wouldn’t. George was his friend. And furthermore, a veritable child when compared to Mitchell, which made things even weirder because Mitchell didn’t even think like that. Ever. If he limited to people inside his age pool, that would be more than a little awkward… But—but, _George_.  
  
It could never happen.  
  
…Maybe Lauren would look good in it.

\----

Lauren, unfortunately, did not look good in it.  
  
Well, Mitchell wouldn’t know. He didn’t ask her to try it on, which would have been weird and inappropriate (either because it was Lauren and she was a murderous psychopath who Mitchell had murdered once, or because it was George’s outfit and Mitchell wasn’t sharing). But he just sort of knew. She wasn’t big enough to fill it out—she was lovely for sure. She also wasn’t George.  
  
Which was a _good_ thing. Christ. You people.  
  
She died as well, which was much more devastating than Mitchell had thought it would be. He killed Lauren twice, this time because she asked him to, and then there was nothing left of her but ashes and the sad sense that Mitchell hadn’t even managed to love her. He just felt empty.  
  
George stayed close—not in a skirt—with biscuits and companionable silences, and Annie with her tea, and Mitchell wasn’t sure what he would have done without the house. Without them.  
  
“You did the right thing,” George said, which was maybe the most he’d ever acknowledged Mitchell’s vampirism without immediately shouting or bursting into tears. When Mitchell didn’t respond (was there a response to that?) George butted their shoulders together and the telepathy kicked in. Annie gave Mitchell a very knowing look in the morning, when he woke up on the sofa (well, mostly on George, who also happened to be on the sofa), cuddling for all he was worth.  
  
“When are you going to tell him?” She asked, crouching down so all three of their noses were level. George still had his glasses on and was snoring softly into Mitchell’s ear. Mitchell held his breath and gently removed the glasses, folding them up and setting them aside. Annie watched, a sad, soft smile on her face.  
  
“Not ever?” She asked.  
  
Mitchell was finding it a little difficult to look away from George’s sleeping face. “It’s good like this. Just the three of us.”  
  
Annie’s smile had brightened a little, and she wrapped her arms around her knees. “It’ll still be the three of us,” she told him. “Even if you do.”  
  
Only no, it wasn’t, she was wrong. Because Annie’s door came. And then there was Herrick and getting staked and Mitchell’s whole world fading to black as he thought that his life had maybe been a little ridiculous too, but far less endearing than George’s. He hoped that they were both okay, those two incredible people that had become the center of his world—and hoped they were both far, far away from him.  
  
Mitchell also wasn’t at all disappointed to open his eyes, somehow still alive, and find them peering down at him. He’d gotten a very squishy hug from Annie and a very tight hug from George and closed his eyes to it and thought of how much he loved them both until his heart felt like it had grown back.  
  
“How am I awake?” Mitchell asked, pulling away. Annie had grinned brightly and George—George had _blushed_ , and Mitchell had thought he’d never see that again. He was struck by the somewhat appalling urge to trace the color with his tongue, but that was understandable, because when you were waking from a near-death experience, there were bound to be a few wires crossed.  
  
“It was George!” Annie burst out, when George went too long silent and blushing. “He came up with this idea—it was bloody brilliant, and I just knew it would work and—Mitchell!” Back to hugging. Mitchell sighed dramatically and was secretly very pleased.  
  
As it turned out, George had managed to get Mitchell put on a fresh batch of blood, heated to body temperature and done something with a centrifuge (that neither of them were supposed to have access to) to somehow mimic the digestive enzymes in vampire saliva or something like that. It involved a lot of big words that Mitchell had trouble processing beyond the fact that he was alive, and so were they, and on a scale of one to ten, he did not think numbers could sum up how unbelievably wonderful this was.  
  
Herrick still needed sorting, of course, but they were _going home._  
  
They limped. Annie had to trip a doctor who disagreed with Mitchell’s new care plan. George looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mitchell got them the rest of the way out through a unique combination of charm and devious quick-thinking. As soon as possible, he collapsed face-first into the sofa and let out a groan of contentment.  
  
No sooner had he gotten comfortable then there was George, hands on hips and frowning down. “You’re not sleeping there.”  
  
Mitchell grunted at George’s knees.  
  
“You’ll bleed on it,” George said. “And then whenever we’re watching Real Hustle, we’ll see the bloodstains and have to remember what an idiot you were, getting yourself staked. You’ll be very embarrassed.”  
  
 _Or we could just turn the cushions over_ , thought Mitchell practically. He grunted again to express this.  
  
“Come on,” George said, rather gently, and Mitchell grumbled a bit as warm hands slipped around him. Mind you, he wasn’t grumbling too much. And he possibly sighed into George’s shirt as he was propped upright, and nuzzled the fabric a little bit. George smelled like wolf. And he was warm. Mitchell had gotten very used to these things. “You can manage the stairs,” George insisted, guiding and letting Mitchell lean on him as much as he wanted. And oh, did Mitchell ever want. He got a flash of Annie’s bright-eyed grin as they shuffled upstairs, and took a chance by swinging an arm around George’s neck.  
  
“Herrick,” Mitchell muttered, more or less shooting himself in the foot, because it made George go stiff and prickly against him. Mitchell sighed through his nose. “He’s not going to just give up.”  
  
“We’ll think of something,” George promised him. He actually tucked Mitchell into bed (which made Mitchell giggle in a slightly delirious way) and when he turned off the lights, he lingered in the doorway a minute, like he already knew that Mitchell had thought of a solution, and knew what it was.  
  
“Mitchell?” He finally said.  
  
“George,” Mitchell answered (sleepily).  
  
“Do you remember what you said to me when I showed up at your hotel room? The first time, the one after we met?”  
  
Mitchell blinked his eyes open a little to the dark. “That you smelled?”  
  
George snorted. “No, _after_ that.”  
  
“Uh,” Mitchell thought about it. His concentration really wasn’t up to the task. All he got was George looking adorable and overgrown in the outrageously colored clothes—which led to George looking adorable and perfect in the ones Mitchell had hidden under his bed for lack of anywhere else to put them. This was not good for Mitchell’s sanity. “Not really... no. Was it bad?”  
  
“You said I could always come hide with you,” George said. Mitchell’s mouth quirked up into a smile—he’d totally forgotten about that.  
  
It was ironic. He hadn’t even meant it. It had just seemed like the sort of thing to say to a very distressed young man wearing biking leathers (bought in a fit of ill-made decisions and alcoholic influence; Mitchell had been very glad to see them go). But it had ended up being true, hadn’t it?  
  
“Did I,” Mitchell repeated, drifting off.  
  
“I can’t lose you,” George said, very quietly, and Mitchell fell asleep with a bone-deep sigh because he felt the same and he’d always put his needs first, wouldn’t he? Vampire thing. They were all fairly rotten.

\----

The night before Herrick, Mitchell got out the outfit.  
  
He hadn’t handled it since Annie had brought it to him with her mischievous grin and hushed giggles. At the time, its possession had made his face flare up in another unmanageable blush, as though he was doing something terribly indecent just by looking at it. He’d been hiding it from himself ever since, whether at the bottom of his dresser, or behind the shoe boxes under his bed. Always not quite able to look at it. But just the same, having it to be around in case he wanted to.  
  
Mitchell thought that he might have built it up a little fantastically in his imagination.  
  
In his hands it was just a heap of cloth—in need of a wash. It was quite ordinary. It wasn’t some piece of unfathomable artistry that had brought all of George’s hidden beauty to light. It was cotton and simplicity. Mitchell thought that maybe he’d imagined the whole episode. Some sort of delayed symptom of getting off blood.  
  
He imagined George in that moment.  
  
40% ridiculous. Mostly quite afraid of his own shadow, but loyal to a fault and brave if someone needed protecting. All sweet, and impossible to picture as angry, until he really was, and then all Mitchell could do was stare and blink and gawp. And so many memories—more memories than Mitchell had of his kills, because it was George, because it was all so unforgettable. It was laughter and smiles and stifled tears and Christ, _werewolves_ , Mitchell hadn’t ever really even thought about werewolves, but this one was the light of his life and he hadn’t been in love with George from the beginning. He _hadn’t_. But George had taught him to love with that mulish stubbornness of his, and now Mitchell couldn’t help it.  
  
It wasn’t the clothes. It was the stupid—the _infuriating_ —it was exactly who George was. It was impossible to have, and Mitchell couldn’t help wanting it desperately. Who else could he possibly love like this?  
  
He wanted to lie on his bed and laugh, just roll around and be happy because he felt like the luckiest creature on Earth.  
  
But it was time to go. Time to sort Herrick.  
  
(Time to end it.)  
  
Mitchell kissed the fabric of the blouse. Touched a hand to the wall of the Pink House. Held Annie one last time. George was already gone. And you know what? Mitchell didn’t blame him at all.  
  
It was time for Mitchell to leave.

\----

You know those moments when you looked back on something you did, some very dramatic gesture, and got embarrassed over it because in hindsight you came off as theatrical and deeply confused?  
  
In the next forty-two hours, Annie managed to physically fend off a human (that nurse George was friends with, who seemed intent on becoming puppy chow), Mitchell’s sire got decapitated by his best friend, Mitchell saw George’s wolf ( _not_ a puppy), and the return to the Pink House was an exhausted, silent affair. Mitchell was contemplating the evils of attempted suicide (such as the fact that neither Annie nor George were speaking to him), Annie was huddled in her cardigan like the little match girl, and George had killed a man. Mitchell would have been afraid to touch him, but George was not recovering well from the transformation this morning, and Mitchell was half-carrying him back to the Pink House. Was vampire flesh toxic to werewolves? Because George had eaten quite a lot of Herrick.  
  
He put George to bed, giving his hand one last silent squeeze. There was no way to tell if the telepathy was getting through, but Mitchell hoped George understood at least a little of the _Why would you do that You idiot Thank you I will never forget this Please don’t change even if you have to I love you so much._  
  
“Mitchell,” George finally spoke up, hoarsely.  
  
Mitchell did something a little bit brave and leaned down without a word, wrapping George tightly in his arms. His head fit into the crook of George’s shoulder, and one of his hands covered George’s heart and found its rhythm. Mitchell held him as tight as he could, rocking him silently as George’s shoulders hitched, then trembled, and then were made still.  
  
George was a very British crier. Here Mitchell was, totally aware of what was happening, and George was making a face like he’d been herniated just to avoid making sound or motion.  
  
“You were brave as hell,” Mitchell told him softly. George’s breath left him in a sigh that ended with a hiccupped sob. Mitchell closed his eyes and held on, resisting the urge to kiss the tears off of his mate.  
  
“I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out.” George’s voice was very rough. Mitchell’s hands curled into the fabric of his shirt. “You being all experienced in the ways of deception and betrayal.”  
  
Mitchell accepted the insult with a smile. It didn’t sting much. George’s telepathy was screaming at him and besides, Mitchell was capable of telling when someone was so emotionally overwrought that they said stupid things they’d regret in the morning.  
  
This was part of why he had his tongue so very much in check. He was feeling a little emotional himself and it simply would not do for George to hear about things that, er… wouldn’t help.  
  
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Mitchell said carefully. “You proved me wrong.”  
  
“You’re my, my best friend,” George said. “My _family_. I’ll do whatever it takes for you, Mitchell. You’ve got to understand that.”  
  
 _I love you_ , thought Mitchell desperately. _I really, really love you. No matter what you do or have done, I will always love you and hang the world. I would marry you if I could, and die together with you just to lie beside you in the earth._ “George,” he sighed, shaking his head. I know that already. “…I love you.”  
  
A pause followed.  
  
As George’s shoulders got steadily stiffer, Mitchell concluded that he had indeed said that out loud. He went very, very still (desperately hoping that he hadn’t given in to impulse and done something stupid like kiss George’s neck as well) and calmly formulated several options of what to say next.  
  
“I love you,” Mitchell said again, closing his eyes a little bit at how good that felt to say. His heart seemed to flutter inside of him, and he pulled away from George’s very rigid frame in time to say with a light laugh, “But you stink terribly, so go to sleep. Take a shower in the morning. And then there will be tea.”  
  
“Tea,” George said, voice slightly muffled. “Of course.”  
  
“Of course,” agreed Mitchell elegantly, and then fled the room.

\----

He found Annie waiting for him. “No,” Mitchell said pre-emptively.  
  
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Annie protested, crossing her legs at him. “Don’t be rude. Besides, you’re the one who’s in trouble. I can’t believe you were going to fight Herrick alone! Shame on you. So you should at least hear someone out—“  
  
“You were eavesdropping just now,” Mitchell replied, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t try to deny it.”  
  
Annie actually glowered at him a little bit, which was a pretty novel experience. “I’m not denying anything,” she said, standing. “Unlike _some people_ I could mention.”  
  
Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Annie, whatever it is, the answer is still no. It’s over, alright? Herrick’s bullshit has concluded, and you know what? I just want to lie down and _sleep_ for a few hundred years. That’s all. I don’t want to go on some romantic adventure, or an epic quest to win someone’s love or take weird mental photos of anyone in a dress. I just want to rest.”  
  
Annie’s eyes had gone a bit wide. “Really?” She finally asked, tilting her head.  
  
Mitchell scowled. “Okay. Maybe a little bit. But it will come to nothing, Annie, so I’m not going to do it.”  
  
Annie ignored the latter half of his statement and instead beamed at him. “I’ve thought of the favor I want from you.”  
  
Mitchell sat on his bed and considered this briefly. What were the chances of getting rid of Annie before hearing her out? …Unfavorable. “Continue.”  
  
“I want you to kiss George.”  
  
Mitchell stared. Annie stared back, intent. Mitchell smiled at last.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. I could have sworn you said you wanted me to kiss George?” Annie nodded.  
  
Mitchell pulled the covers over his head. “Good night, Annie.”  
  
“Well fine,” the ghost huffed. “I’ll just be taking this back, then.”  
  
Mitchell did not have to look to know that she’d snagged the outfit off of his bedspread. Fine. She could have it. It wasn’t like he needed it anyway. Or even wanted it. It was a creepy thing to have.  
  
(Damn her.)

\----

So, as you can see, Mitchell had made very good life choices. He’d made the right friends, stuck to the right loyalties, and even gave up the strange, inadvertent fetish item taking up residence in his room. He had not hit on his straight best friend during a moment of emotional vulnerability. You know what that made him? Noble.  
  
He had, however, proceeded to _imagine_ that he’d hit on said friend during his moment of distress. In an imaginary realm, Mitchell had gotten a favorable response. His current favorite was the one where he got a favorable response on the sofa, twice in a row.  
  
(And George totally tasted like strawberries in his imagination, because Mitchell could imagine whatever he wanted, because it was his fantasy. Lay off. Strawberry was the best flavor anyway.)  
  
Even Annie wasn’t cross with him—and Mitchell had expected her to be. He’d promised her that favor, after all. Though maybe she’d decided to set their problems aside in favor of enjoying the Herrick-free world.  
  
That _would_ make the current situation all the more puzzling, however. Annie had to be tied to it in some integral way.  
  
How, exactly, Mitchell wasn’t sure. It was hard to form coherent thought at the moment.  
  
“George,” he said, nodding his head in greeting and feeling for once very British.  
  
“Hi,” said George, from the doorway to Mitchell’s room. He had his arms crossed and looked fairly surly. Mitchell put his arms behind his back and discreetly pinched himself. Ow.  
  
So not another dream then.  
  
“This may sound like a stupid question,” Mitchell said, trying to sound less faint than he felt. “But the full moon isn’t for a few more days?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And this isn’t some bet I forgot about?”  
  
To clarify: George was in the outfit. Yeah, the one Annie had _confiscated_. _The Outfit._ He had no reason to be wearing it; it could not have spontaneously manifested on a convenient clothesline twice. Mitchell refused to believe in that level of coincidence. Could it have? No, George hadn’t become a wolf recently. It wasn’t possible.  
  
And yet: here it was. Mitchell was quite possibly freaking out a little.  
  
“Mitchell,” George said, very determinedly not meeting Mitchell’s incredulous gaze. He was blushing—of course, he was George and in a skirt that made his legs impossible to look away from in an entirely flattering way—sweating slightly although the outfit should have been cooler than his usual garments, and had his shoulders up a bit, his collarbone standing out in stark, beautiful relief. “Erm, I’m not sure how to phrase this. Bear with me?”  
  
“Take your time,” Mitchell said, leaning against a wall now, because he was quite worried that he might actually pass out. That, or pin George to a wall and do something obscene to him.  
  
“Okay,” George said, taking a deep breath. “Mitchell? The thing is. It’s, I’m, um.” He was reduced to incoherent stammering after this point, and Mitchell felt somewhat to blame. Their eyes had met, and George’s face had gone very pale—then extremely flushed. “Do you—?” He was still looking into Mitchell’s eyes. His gaze (so blue it hurt to look at, almost) was pleading and hopeful and Mitchell’s stomach felt like there were bearing balls in it. “Do you, maybe…?”  
  
Mitchell couldn’t stand it. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “George, yes or no. May I kiss you?”  
  
Dead silence.  
  
Well, Mitchell had probably dug his grave very thoroughly with that one, so he might as well go wholesale. “On the mouth,” he added gravely, and set his hands at his sides in preparation for getting clocked.  
  
Mitchell tumbled back into the wall and hit his head. And oddly _not_ because George had punched him.  
  
“Sorry!” George yelped, backpedalling and bright red. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“  
  
 _George_ , thought Mitchell, thoroughly disoriented. _Lips. Very soft. Did he just kiss me?_ “Come here,” he said, not caring if he was begging at this point, and feeling a deep, crushing relief when George stepped tentatively forward. Mitchell touched his shoulders first, hesitant, and then leaned in to peck his lips for a second.  
  
He came back sticky. “You’ve got something,” He began, licking his mouth. George tasted… Oh great god, he tasted strawberries. There was a sheen on George’s lips—dare Mitchell say a _shimmer_ —and the bottom of Mitchell’s stomach dropped out altogether when he realized that George was wearing _cosmetics._  
  
It also helped that George made a very disgruntled noise and pressed forward, capturing Mitchell’s lips in another strawberry-flavored kiss. Mitchell groaned, hands tightening their grip, and he angled his head on a reflex, not thinking at all of what was allowed and what wasn’t. But he was allowed—George opened his mouth up without prompting and Mitchell was inside as fast as he could be, and he’d managed to smudge George’s eyeliner with the fingers cupping his face. And George was wearing _eyeliner_ , and it was hysterically funny (mostly hysterical), so Mitchell was laughing and licking at George’s mouth at once and George wasn’t pulling away. He was nudging forward, straight into the kiss, and yes, at this point they’d devoured the lip gloss, but the inside of George’s mouth was so sweet Mitchell couldn’t tell.  
  
“Mitchell,” George growled, hands knotted in Mitchell’s hair. He bit Mitchell’s throat in a devastatingly sexy way that about tore Mitchell’s heart in two.  
  
And then you had Mitchell, giggling helplessly about, “But the eyeliner, George!”  
  
George pulled away, a tight grimace on his face that Mitchell couldn’t help but chase. He coaxed George back into his arms, swallowing the nervous laughter and cornering George between their bodies until George was just sort of glaring up at him and Mitchell was quite possibly having a panic attack. And he didn’t do panic attacks. George was better at them.  
  
“Don’t go,” Mitchell managed, aiming for a sexy sort of growl. It sounded dreadful. Mitchell nearly swallowed his own tongue watching George’s pupils dilate at the sound. “Where are you going?” Mitchell tried again, hands sweeping down George’s side, bunching in the delicate fabric there.  
  
“You _laughed_ ,” George accused, incredibly offended.  
  
“No, I didn’t,” Mitchell lied, because honesty was hard and he had the feeling this situation would improve with a lot less words. He took advantage of George’s spluttering to sneak another kiss. It made Mitchell’s eyes close—just the briefest touch—and he was leaned into George, forehead to forehead, breathing his breath and feeling like he might shake apart at any minute. “Come on,” Mitchell whispered—and this time it came out right. “What do you want, George? Talk.” His hands had gone as far down as they could, and now they went back up to touch George’s face. George’s eyes had never been so blue. Mitchell had the crazy impulse to lick the eyeliner and mascara away like he had the lip gloss.  
  
“You’re dressed up,” Mitchell observed, thoughts beginning to slide into some coherent order. George’s gaze smoldered against him, lips parting in a gasp as Mitchell seized his hips beneath the skirt (every bit as satisfying as he’d hoped. They were gorgeous). “And not for Nina, I don’t think this is much to her fancy—so what _am_ I supposed to think?” His hands were moving on their own. They had no business doing that. And yet Mitchell couldn’t stop them. He had George cornered, so he moved them together, closer, until their body heat was mingling and he could feel how hard George was breathing. With anger? With… something else?  
  
“Think what you want,” George said, apparently feeling unhelpful. Mitchell’s hands were still moving, caressing George’s hips. Mitchell wanted to kick himself a little—an inherently possessive motion had no business here. All they’d done was snog. Maybe George didn’t know what it meant? That would be good.  
  
“Did you dress up for me?” Mitchell whispered to him, leaning in for George’s mouth again. He watched, fascinated, as George’s lips parted for him, seeking. They trembled slightly as their mouths eased together and George moaned a little when Mitchell pulled away.  
  
“Yes,” George breathed into the space between them.  
  
“You wanted _me_ to see this?” Mitchell asked suspiciously, trying to make absolutely sure. It felt like the world had just turned on its head and he was feeling…  
  
Well, he was feeling like he’d missed something rather important and the only thing he wanted to do was get George on his back, which was rude and inappropriate and absolutely true. He wanted them to get married in the morning too, wherever it was allowed, and to kiss and cuddle for the rest of his life, whether it was allowed or not. He wanted to be one of those horrible PDA couples just to see George blush. He wanted—he wanted another kiss.  
  
He had another one, asking urgently as George arched into it, “You like me seeing you like this?”  
  
“Oh for—“ George huffed under his breath, and snapped up a hand to yank at Mitchell’s hair. Mitchell surprised himself with the sound he made. All aggression and desire. George’s body shuddered against him and George practically squeaked, “ _Yes._ Mitchell, can we—?”  
  
“Anything,” Mitchell promised immediately, heart hammering and so profoundly aroused he wasn’t sure which way was up. “Whatever you want, George. Ask.”  
  
“Oh just shut up,” George grumbled, tugging, and they fell into the mattress in a tangle of limbs and fabric.  
  
And it was _glorious_.

\----

“Okay?” Mitchell asked after it had ended, feeling anxious in spite of his satisfaction (or perhaps because of it; this was the moment when he typically realized that someone had died). George’s head lolled over to give him a lazy smile and an equally lazy, chaste kiss. He nuzzled his head into Mitchell’s chest and let out a long, slow breath. Mitchell, whose arms were in danger of giving out, made a controlled crash landing on his side, and managed to curl George along with him. They had a full-body cuddle going on. Mitchell absently kissed the top of George’s head, feeling like all was right with the world.  
  
And then George suddenly sat up (nearly head-butting Mitchell in the process), scrambling out of his arms. He made a noise at an octave that was, frankly, impressive for any mammal, and thrust a finger forward.  
  
Mitchell reacted automatically by spinning around. And falling off the bed.  
  
There was nothing there.  
  
He was about to get very cross with George when George yelped, “Mitchell! We left the door open!”  
  
Oh.  
  
Yes… Yes, they had.  
  
 _Well_ , Mitchell reasoned, wincing at the sight of the open door. _Well, it’s us. It can’t all go to plan._

\----

Annie was honestly very nice about it. That didn’t mean Mitchell didn’t expect for her to have some terribly devious plan in store for later, about how to embarrass them into an early grave and thus cement their bond for an unholy eternity.  
  
She told them that they were very loud. That was the extent of her teasing, at this point. It sent George running upstairs (he had to be coaxed back down with chamomile and lemon), and made Mitchell grin broadly until she socked him in the shoulder.  
  
No, the more pressing problem was George.  
  
Mitchell was reasonably sure that George had feelings for him. That was the sort of thing one got a degree of certainty over, after having screwed someone’s brains out.  
  
But George was being bizarrely skittish. Very jumpy. Mitchell was willing to chalk it up to post-sex embarrassment and just assume that George was being odd (but still totally loveable), but the thing was… it was kind of like George was avoiding him?  
  
Mitchell didn’t think he’d done _that_ badly. George hadn't been complaining, even when he did catch his breath enough for discrete syllables.  
  
And—and even if Mitchell was wrong and it hadn't been good, George ought to just say so. They didn’t have to do it again. They could just talk. Hang out. Like always. If that’s what George wanted.  
  
(Okay, so Mitchell would maybe cry himself to sleep for the next millennia if that actually came to pass, but he’d _still_ do it.)  
  
Annie’s advice was to talk to George. Mitchell thought that was pretty sound advice, if only George would stop running away from him. So in the interests of getting George to be distracted long enough for capture, Mitchell was forced to do something drastic.  
  
Annie slapped a hand over her mouth when she saw him, preemptively cutting off the laughter. Mitchell tipped his hat to her and sat down on the sofa to flip through another terrible paperback. “Annie,” he greeted simply. He smiled a bit into his book. Annie tipped into the kitchen counter, giggling helplessly.  
  
George came home soon after.  
  
“Hello,” he called, shuffling inside and stowing his keys in his pocket. “Annie, have you seen my—“  
  
Annie gestured wordlessly. George huffed, turned, and froze in place like he’d seen an alligator in a pond. Mitchell, reclined on the sofa, gave him a wave. “Afternoon,” he said, propping his feet up on the coffee table in a fit of devious brilliance. George’s mouth fell open. “How was your day?”  
  
“ _This_ is why you called in sick today?” George eventually squeaked. He then added, “It was fine.”  
  
Mitchell had indeed called in sick for this. But hey, he’d learned from George that you had to get this kind of thing right. So indeed, he had done so.  
  
The salesman at the shop had tried to insist on black because apparently Mitchell had the coloring for that, but he’d refused on the grounds that he mostly wanted to see George’s face when Mitchell turned up in something magenta and orange. The top hat was because it had looked fun and apparently Mitchell had childish impulses.  
  
The colors were sort of a shame. It was a lovely evening dress, that aside. And apparently made for blokes! Mitchell would have to tell George about the place.  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Mitchell said, and sauntered up and off the sofa. He caught George by the arm and spun him neatly towards the stairs. “Excuse us, Annie,” he said.  
  
“Oh god,” said George.  
  
“No, excuse _me_ ,” Annie replied, looking delighted beyond belief. She curtsied to him, which Mitchell accepted with a regal nod of his head before following George upstairs.  
  
“Mitchell,” George said quickly, the moment that Mitchell closed his door (see? Remembered that this time). “I, um, er, please don’t do that.”  
  
“Do what?” Mitchell asked innocently, having just made George achieve a delicious color of pink by stripping off an evening glove. “This?” He fingered the other glove.  
  
The trick was making it look like you were doing something really erotic, when in fact you weren’t. George squeaked and covered his eyes. “Mitchell, I can’t do this.”  
  
And just like that, the magic was over.  
  
Mitchell froze, grin fading. He consulted the different things George might mean. But there really was only one answer.  
  
Alright. Well, if that was the case, Mitchell was going to accept this gracefully. He took a deep breath and moved past George to the bed, where he sat down in the most professional, nonthreatening manner he could think of. He probably looked disconcertingly like Herrick in a dress (NEVER THINK THAT THOUGHT AGAIN) but there were more pressing matters.  
  
“It’s just,” George said, facing Mitchell with a helplessly miserable expression. Mitchell, who had been feeling rather cold all over, felt something in him go stupidly soft and knew that he didn’t have a chance of trying to manipulate George back into this either.  
  
“It’s okay,” Mitchell said, and it kind of was. He even managed a half-smile. “I get it, George. I didn’t mean to push.”  
  
George looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “I really do like you, Mitchell…”  
  
“I know,” Mitchell said. “I like you too.” He took a deep breath.  
  
“Friends?” He suggested, just as George burst out,  
  
“I’m just not into drag, I’m so sorry!”  
  
They both proceeded to freeze.  
  
Mitchell’s eyebrows ascended slowly and George’s mouth fell open. Silence reigned, and then George started to inch back. “Erm,” he said, voice gone rather high-pitched. “Tea! I’ll make us some t—”  
  
Mitchell caught him by the back of the collar. His chest was tight, and he was caught somewhere between a desperately unhealthy level of hope and the need to wallop George upside the head. He settled for dragging George back to him and grabbing him in a bear hug to growl, “George, we appear to have a misunderstanding.”  
  
“That we do,” George wheezed. Mitchell scowled and loosened his grip. Predictably, George tried to squirm his way out. As he began to succeed, Mitchell rolled his eyes and tripped him.  
  
Not nice, yes, but very effective.  
  
He stood over George quite sternly, hands on his hips, evening dress in full display. “Okay, I’m going to say this as plainly as possible,” Mitchell announced. “Because clearly, we cannot be expected to sort this shit out with telepathy yet.”  
  
George cracked his fingers apart to peer at Mitchell. “What?”  
  
“Ssh,” Mitchell added fondly. “George Sands, I am in love with you. I have been for a while. You wearing women’s things is attractive to me, as I assume you've determined—but it is not attractive because you are a man wearing women’s things. I did not sleep with you because you were wearing a skirt. It was attractive because you are George and I love you no matter what ridiculous thing you’re doing.”  
  
George was just kind of staring up at Mitchell through his fingers, slack-jawed.  
  
“I find you sexy when you’re eating peanuts on the sofa,” Mitchell added, hoping to lend some perspective to this conversation.  
  
George’s fingers closed. “Are you trying to kill me?”  
  
“That’s not a real thing,” Mitchell assured him. “You can only die of blood loss. Or organ failure.”  
  
George huffed through his fingers. “I, erm, I think I feel somewhat the same.” George coughed. “I love you, you lug.”  
  
“I see.” Mitchell’s heart squeezed tight enough that he couldn’t help smiling.  
  
“And I’d like to really seriously be with you, if at all possible. I wanted to ask, and…”  
  
“I shall take that into consideration.”  
  
“And,” George said, voice quavering slightly, “The embarrassing part is that you really _are_ attractive in that dress.”  
  
Mitchell grinned and leaned down to hold out his hand to George. “George. Are you aware that the door is closed?”  
  
“Oh god,” said George faintly. But he still took Mitchell’s hand.


End file.
